“Speak, Perdita,” observed the old woman.
“Pray remember that my name is Laura!” cried her daughter, petulantly. “You perceive how necessary it is that we should dwell apart from each other. Your imprudence is really great; and the question I am about to put to you, refers to some matter in which you doubtless compromised yourself. Are you acquainted with the Marquis of Delmour?”
“The Marquis of Delmour!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with an expression of countenance denoting the most unfeigned astonishment. “No—certainly not. I have heard of him, it is true; but only in the same way that one hears of any other person conspicuous for rank, wealth, or station. I have never seen the Marquis of Delmour to my knowledge.”
“Perhaps you have been in his company without knowing who he was,” resumed Laura. “At all events, have you recently represented yourself, in any circle or place, as the widow of a General-officer whom you stated to have died in India?”
The system of duplicity which the old woman determined to adopt towards her daughter, had so well prepared her to sustain any questioning or cross-examination on any point, that she did not betray the least surprise, nor did her countenance undergo the slightest change as that interrogatory suddenly brought to her mind the conviction that Mr. Vernon and the Marquis of Delmour must be one and the same person. Without at the moment perceiving how this discovery could be in any way useful to her, but still acting with that reserve and wariness with which she had armed herself in order to meet her daughter, she resolved not to mention a single word of anything that had occurred in London relative to the beautiful Recluse of the Cottage, her father, and Lord William Trevelyan.
Accordingly, and without the least hesitation,—nor quailing, nor changing colour beneath the penetrating gaze which Laura fixed upon her,—she said, “I do not remember ever to have made any such representation as that to which you allude.”
“It is singular—this coincidence,” mused Laura, audibly; “and yet it is of little import to me.”
“It would appear, at all events, that you must be acquainted with this Marquis of Delmour of whom you speak?” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a careless and indifferent tone.
Scarcely were the words uttered, when a violent ringing at the front door was heard; and in a few moments a voice, instantly recognised alike by Laura and her mother, exclaimed to Rosalie, “Has your mistress retired to rest yet? I must see her immediately.”
The abigail, suspecting that it would be better not to allow the Marquis of Delmour—for he the visitor was—to be brought face to face with the handsome young Italian, unhesitatingly conducted the nobleman into the parlour where Laura and Mrs. Mortimer were holding their interview.